


Domestic Harmonies: 1 The Kitchen (In Hot Water); 2 The Sitting Room (Ineffably Free)

by Mizmak



Series: Domestic Harmonies [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Short & Sweet, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24409918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Parts 1 and 2 of an 8-part slice-of-life series set (mostly) in the South Downs cottage, where Crowley and Aziraphale learn how to live together in domestic harmony.  Lightweight all the way.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Domestic Harmonies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762777
Comments: 12
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally deleted part 2 of the series, so have added it here in part 1 (as chapter 2).

Crowley knew he had done something bad by the look of severe disapproval on Aziraphale’s face. They stood on opposite sides of the dining room table, and the angel had picked up the large knife which Crowley had just set down after using it to cut open a taped-up cardboard box.

Aziraphale spoke in slow, _I-am-barely-containing-myself_ syllables. “What. Is. This.”

Crowley pursed his lips. He knew that tone. It was not a happy tone. He was in so much trouble. He stared at the table, on which the offending cardboard box stood, its top neatly sliced open. He looked up. “It’s a knife?” he asked in a slightly pleading tone. “One that you’re not going to kill me with?”

“ _This_ is a santoku chef’s knife, my _dear_. Made in Germany. Lovingly cared for. And what is the _only_ thing it should be used for?”

“Er…um…for cooking sorts of things? And not for killing your beloved best friend with….?”

Aziraphale turned and walked into the kitchen, where he lovingly placed the knife on a soft towel. Then he strode over to the cupboard where the utility items were kept.

He returned to the dining table and held up a utility knife. “And what is _this?”_

Crowley gulped. “It’s, um, well…it’s the box cutter knife that you use to open boxes with.”

“Correct. And what do we _never ever ever_ use to open boxes?”

“Possibly a lovingly cared for chef’s knife?” But it had been so handy, right out there in the open, while he’d completely forgotten where the idiot box-cutter was kept. How was he supposed to keep track of things like that when they’d been in their new cottage a mere fortnight?

“Never, never, _ever_.” Aziraphale set the utility knife down on the table. He shook his head while making a sad, murmuring noise. “How I shall get my precious knife restored to its pristine condition, I can’t imagine.”

“You could miracle it back,” Crowley said brightly. “Or just miracle up a brand new one.” Really, he was making far too much out of this little mishap. Besides, he had taken up cooking all of one week ago. How could he have formed such an emotional attachment to one knife so quickly? He was taking the whole _I’m going to be a world-class chef_ notion far too seriously.

Aziraphale tapped his fingers on the table top. “Is that your answer to everything? It doesn’t matter what sort of foolish act you perform, you can simply rectify it with a snap?” He shook his head some more while adding a few _tsk tsk_ sounds for good measure. “Wouldn’t it be more thoughtful to _think_ before you indulge in the first idea that comes to mind? Couldn’t you try being a bit more _considerate?”_

Crowley had to admit that thinking before acting was hardly his strong suit. However, this domestic life they’d taken up together was new territory, which he could surely not be expected to master in a fortnight.

“Be fair, Angel. Why would I know anything about cooking and stuff?” His old flat hadn’t even had a kitchen. If he was hungry, all he did was perform a miracle and food appeared. Simple. “Why do you need to cook at _all?”_

“Because it’s _fun_ , of course. And because there are all of two places to eat in the village, neither of which can be called fine dining. I’d like to be able to make gourmet meals at home.”

“Right, fine. But do you have to be _fussy_ about it?”

“I am not being ‘fussy’ about this. I am being _precise_.” Aziraphale sighed. “I think it might be best if you stayed out of the kitchen as much as possible.”

“But—“ That was where the wine glasses were kept.

“My dear, in two short weeks you have damaged the can opener—“

“How was I supposed to know it can’t go in the dishwasher?”

“And broken the dishwasher—“

“Yeah, well, it ought to come with _instructions._ ”

“And we also need a new microwave—“

“Again, _instructions_. And you tell _me_ why your Edwardian china plates have gold rimmed edges!” Apparently, you couldn’t put those in a microwave without consequences, which he had belatedly discovered.

“Not the _point_.” Aziraphale crossed his arms. “The _point_ is to take care of things!”

“Fine.” Crowley crossed his arms as well. “The kitchen is off limits, then.” He hesitated. “I mean, except for the wine glasses, obviously.”

“Very well.”

“Good.”

“Right.”

Then Aziraphale looked at the box which had been the start of it all, the box that had been Crowley’s downfall. “What is this, anyway? I thought we already unpacked everything.”

_Ah_. Crowley leaned over to pull the flaps open, the ones he had cut through with the lovingly cared for chef’s knife. “This is something new that I ordered.”

He reached in to pull out a decorative plate and its accompanying wooden stand. The plate, about ten inches in diameter, depicted a country cottage very like their own, encircled by yellow roses. 

Crowley smiled softly as he held it up. “Yellow roses indicate friendship, and new beginnings.”

Aziraphale uncrossed his arms. He stared at the plate, blinked, and then looked at Crowley. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

“Something wrong with it?” Crowley turned it round to see if there was a crack or a chip.

“No, my dear. Nothing’s wrong with the plate.” He turned and strode into the kitchen, from which Crowley heard a distinct _snap_ of fingers, and then Aziraphale quickly returned to the dining room.

“Fixed the knife, did you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Right.” He was out of trouble just like that. _Whew_. “Sorry I used it wrongly, Angel, I really am.”

Aziraphale smiled as he moved closer to touch his arm. “And _I’m_ sorry that I got a bit tetchy over it. The plate is very thoughtful.”

“Well, then.” Crowley relaxed, happy in the warmth emanating from his dearest friend. Now, then, this plate that had saved him from further recriminations needed a proper home.

He looked round the dining room. “Where should we put it? In this big glass-fronted thingy—?”

“You mean the display cabinet.”

“Yeah, right. Or what about on top of this—er—short storage whatsit—“

“ _Sideboard_.”

“Got it. Oh, or how about this weird little corner shelf with the fancy sides that already has a load of knickknacks on it—“

“That’s an _etagere_.”

Crowley quirked an eyebrow. “It’s a _what?”_

Aziraphale took the plate and holder from him. “An etagere is a tiered shelf, often with fretwork sides, used to hold collectibles.”

“Of course it is. Why not just call it a corner shelf?”

“Because it’s an _etagere_ , that’s why.”

“I _said_ you were fussy, you know that, right?”

“I am _precise_.” Aziraphale leaned in to lightly kiss Crowley’s cheek. “Thank you for buying this lovely plate. I think it deserves a better setting than the dining room, though. What about on the fireplace mantel?”

At least he knew what _that_ was. “Sounds perfect.”

“Good.”   
Crowley followed him into the sitting room, where he watched Aziraphale position the plate on its holder in the exact center of the mantel. “All right?”

“Yup.”

Aziraphale stepped back. “Yes, that’s the right spot.” He turned to pull Crowley into an embrace. “And you are hereby restored to your kitchen privileges.”

“Yeah? I might ruin something.” He put a hand round the back of Aziraphale’s head, and ran his fingers through his soft hair.

“Don’t care anymore.”

“Liar.”

“Well, perhaps a bit. Don’t touch the electronics.”

“They’re all yours.” Crowley kissed him, lingering over the touch, and enjoying a light taste of cocoa and cinnamon.

Aziraphale pulled back. “What if I make crepes for lunch?”

“Always a favorite.”

“Good.” As Aziraphale strolled off to the kitchen, he said, “You _do_ know how to take care of the most important thing here.”

“Hm?”

_“Me_ , of course.” Aziraphale paused in the doorway to look back. “Coming?” He smiled. “I may need a hand at times….”

Crowley grinned as he hurried to follow.


	2. The Sitting Room:  Ineffably Free

Aziraphale sat at one end of the overstuffed, extra-wide sofa, while Crowley lay stretched out full-length, using the angel’s thigh for a pillow.

When the afternoon began a few hours ago, a light rain had been falling, and a fire had been burning, but now the sun broke through the clouds with shafts of warming light filtering through the lace curtains in the front bow windows. The fire had died down to embers.

They had started out, that rainy afternoon, with two cups of tea, followed by Aziraphale reading aloud from _Treasure Island_ , which had managed to amuse Crowley for a good hour before he drifted off to sleep.

Now the book sat on the coffee table, while Aziraphale sipped freshly brewed tea that had somehow made its way from the kitchen to the sitting room without his physical help. He gently stroked Crowley’s hair, which had grown out a little in the month they’d lived here. 

Crowley’s eyelids flickered off and on, and he made murmuring noises, lost in a dream, no doubt.

“Mmph….the black spot…a bottle of rum,” he muttered.

Aziraphale smiled. Crowley was having a dream that seemed to include bits from the book. He was pleased that his dear friend, who often claimed to avoid reading books, had been sufficiently entertained enough to remember parts of the story.

He would love it if this became a regular part of their lives here—Crowley relaxed beside him as he read from his favorite books. Aziraphale envisioned many lazy afternoons to come, especially on rainy days, with warmth from the fireplace, with tea or cocoa and perhaps a nice, sweet treat to nibble on. 

“Pieces of eight…” Crowley murmured, and then he twisted about, eyelids fluttering wildly. “Drink and the devil!” he shouted, sitting bolt upright, eyes wide.

_Oops_. Perhaps this hadn’t been the best choice of novel. “Calm down, my dear. It was just a dream.” He pulled Crowley back down onto his lap. “There, there.” He brushed a few errant strands of hair off his friend’s forehead.

“Sorry.” Crowley took a deep breath, and then sighed. He gazed up at Aziraphale, eyes shining with affection. “I was on the island, digging for buried treasure. Kept being dive-bombed by a parrot.” He smiled. “It had horns.”

“A parrot with horns?”

“Devil parrot.”

“Ah, of course.” Dreams could be so odd. “Wonder what that says about your subconscious, my dear.”

“I am constantly harried by devils, I guess. Though not anymore. Shouldn’t be, anyway.”

“You’re not worried, are you? Deep down?” It was something he had fretted over, ever since they’d both been let go, so to speak, by their former employers—he worried that either revengeful angels or demons might take matters into their own hands, and seek to harm them still.

“Nah.” Crowley waved a dismissive hand. But then his brow furrowed. “Well, mostly not. Might have a few lingering doubts now and then.”

It had been only one month since they’d retired to this cottage. Perhaps as more time passed, the anxiety would fade. “I’ve had them, too. But I do hope that both our former sides will simply forget about us—out of sight and out of mind.”

“Yeah, I reckon they will.” Crowley stretched out an arm, flexing his fingers. “Just a silly dream.” Then he slowly sat up. “Hey, the rain stopped.”

“Yes, I believe it’s done for the day. Perhaps we could go for a stroll before evening?”

“Yeah, all right. In a bit.” Crowley snuggled up close, and wrapped an arm round Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You read very well, you know.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale felt absurdly cheered. 

“Make the characters come alive—different voices and all. And it’s a good story, too. I could get used to this.”

“I’m so happy to hear that.” It was what he wanted—to share the things he adored, like books, with his beloved friend. “We could make a habit of reading in the afternoons, when we’re not doing anything else, that is. I have so many favorites—there are so many wonderful stories that we can enjoy together. And of course, I don’t need to hog the limelight, so to speak. I mean, if you wanted to do some of the reading, too, I think that would be absolutely delightful. Whatever you like best—adventure, comedy—“

“Romance?” Crowley kissed his temple. 

“Oh, well, yes.” Aziraphale reached up to cradle Crowley’s face with both hands, and kissed him on the lips. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

They nestled even closer together then, exchanging soft caresses and light kisses, and Aziraphale felt that this was heaven—not the cold, unwelcoming sterile Heaven with a capital H, but a gentler, kinder heaven of their own making here on Earth. 

“You know,” Crowley said, “of all the paths I once imagined my life would go down, sharing a cottage with an angel was not high on the list, in terms of likelihood.”

“No, I suppose not. Odd, how things worked out for us.” He refrained from saying _ineffable_. “If we hadn’t stopped Armagedddon, we wouldn’t have been in trouble, nor would we have pulled that body swap to get out of trouble. And we wouldn’t have our freedom.”

He felt Crowley shudder against him. “Doesn’t bear thinking about.”

But Aziraphale _had_ thought about it. If Armageddon had actually happened—the Earth would have been destroyed, and if Heaven had won, which he felt fairly certain of, what would have become of Crowley? And if Heaven lost—well, that didn’t bear thinking about, either. In any case, they would have been separated, or doomed to obliteration, never to be together again. 

It _was_ ineffable indeed, that they had wound up together, and safe. Now that he thought it over even more, he suddenly knew that _Someone_ must have looked out for them.

“Crowley, about what you said earlier…about being chased by demons, from that dream you had. I honestly believe we don’t need to worry about anyone coming after us, ever.”

“You sound very sure of that.” Crowley looked at him, smiled, and brushed his fingers along Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“I _am_ sure.” His earlier fretting had completely disappeared. “It’s because we _are_ here—in this most unlikely of places. There is simply no possible way this all could have happened by chance, or by some bizarre series of accidents. The probability, as you said, of an angel and a demon working together to save the world and then winding up in love and living together is so low as to be next-to-impossible.”

“Yeah? So what—it was all planned, then, from the very beginning?”

“You suggested that once. And yes, it must have been. Which means the Almighty _wants_ us to be here. Which, I believe, also means we are being rewarded for services rendered—and we’ll be protected from harm in order to enjoy that reward.”

Crowley nodded. “I like your reasoning.”

Aziraphale felt at peace then, in this comfortable place, next to the one he was meant to be with—from the beginning. “It has to be the right thing. Us, here.” He glanced upwards, at a Heaven he couldn’t see, but which he knew was there, and not the cold, sterile one ruled by the Archangels. He saw, in his mind’s eye, a place of supreme benevolence from which the Almighty spread out a celestial wing that covered his and Crowley’s love.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he whispered. Then he shifted out of their embrace to stretch his arms. “Come on, let’s take that walk now.”

“Right.” Crowley rose, stretching as well. “Down to the village and back, on the footpath? We could pick up some wine, maybe a little cheese.”

They headed off, into the late afternoon, and as they strolled hand in hand, Aziraphale could have sworn that the soft rays of sunlight which they walked beneath not only warmed, but blessed them as they went.


End file.
